HetaOni One-Shots
by SonicFan3
Summary: A collection of one-shots about HetaOni (kind of obvious, huh?). About various events and characters, so there are spoilers for the series. Rated T for blood, mentioned violence, extremely mild language in a couple of them, and death.
1. Blindness

**(Author's Note: Remembered this needs to be done... I DO NOT OWN HETALIA, AO ONI, OR HETAONI.)**

"How many fingers… am I holding up?"

England couldn't answer that. He never would be able to ever again. The black curtain lowered in front of his eyes assured him of that.

"You can answer that, can't you? If… you can see."

He swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat to go down. He knew America knew the truth as well as he did, that he was only asking because he still clung desperately to the hope they both wished was true.

"…It can't… be…"

Oh, how England wanted to deny it. How he wanted to answer his brother's question, to assure him things were alright, that nothing was wrong. But he knew that there was no escaping the truth.

"I'm sorry, America… I can… no longer… see…"

Before England could fully grasp what was happening, two strong arms wrapped themselves tightly around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace. His brother buried his face into his shoulder, starting to soak it with tears within only a few seconds, his body shaking with sobs.

America was crying. _America_ was _crying_.

That realization destroyed the last ounce of strength England had. He collapsed into America's chest, clinging to him as if he was his last lifeline.

He was blind. He couldn't see. _He couldn't see…_

Why hadn't he listened to America? Why had he felt the need to be the hero? Why did he stray from his position as the gentleman, try to fulfill a role he'd never tried to fill before?

Digging his hands into America's jacket, England was dimly aware of a loud, anguished wailing. It took him a few moments to realize it was coming from himself.

"It's… It's gonna be ok, England," He heard America shakily whisper into his ear. "It's gonna be ok. We'll… We'll figure something out, alright?"

Normally, England would've snapped at America, told him not to lie to him, to be realistic. Now, however, he weakly nodded and buried his face into America's shoulder, his breath hitching as he attempted to get his sobs under control. He didn't want truth or reality now. He wanted comfort, support, hope.

Because as long as he had those, he could make it through this.


	2. Crimson

Crimson. The color of pasta sauce, of my brother's tomatoes, and one of the colors of my tricolor flag. A color that's part of my everyday life.

I never want to see it again.

It fills my vision, staining the once-pure white floors, furniture, walls.

It stains the uniforms of my friends.

How many more times will I fail? How many more times must I see this flood of red that obscures my sight? When will this cycle end?

No matter how many times I try, I never succeed. The color I once loved so much continuously flows from my friends, taking their lives with it.

I want it to stop. I want to win. I want them to get out. I don't care if I lose my life in the process; I just want to stop seeing the red that flows from their bodies. I want to stop seeing their eyes glaze over, falling shut with their final breath.

Germany, Prussia, Japan, everyone… They all died. Again. They left me alone once more, alone with the vile color that coats the ground beneath my feet.

Once more, I will turn back time. Once more, I will attempt to save them. And undoubtedly, once more, I will watch them stain this mansion with their scarlet blood.

But maybe, just maybe, I will save them. Maybe this time, I will be crowned victorious. This time, I might finally stop the relentless flood of crimson.

That is, the flood of crimson from everyone but myself.

I have to die to save them. I know that. And I deserve it.

I brought them here. I started the slaughter. I caused for this all to happen. I deserve to pay for my mistakes.

They've died for me over and over again. Now, it's my turn to die for them.

And maybe, just maybe, I will finally stop the infinite tide of crimson.


	3. The Piano

"Anyone there?"

Japan knew it was a stupid question. The room wasn't that large, so he could clearly see that he was alone, save for a pristine, white piano in the middle of the room.

And yet, he felt a sense of foreboding, like there was someone hidden in there, ready to jump out and slice his neck open.

Shuddering, Japan folded his arms over his chest, glancing around. There was a sense of wrongness in the air. Like something horrible had happened. Something he should know.

Slowly, Japan shook his head, trying to clear it of all dark thoughts. It was just the mansion. It had to be. He'd been feeling that feeling of dread ever since they'd first set foot on the property, and it'd only gotten stronger since.

But why had it suddenly peaked to maximum in this one room?

Was it the white? Was it the emptiness? Or was his terror catching up to him now that he knew Italy was the only one still missing?

Or was it that lone piano sitting in the middle of the room?

Yes, that was it. Japan didn't know why, but that lone piano sent fear coursing through his veins, evoking a terror he'd never felt before.

Cautiously, the island nation made his way over to the piano, ignoring the alarm bells going off in his head. Stopping in front of it, he glanced down at the keys. So pristine, so white.

Then why was he envisioning them stained scarlet red?

Hesitantly, he reached down and touched them, immediately pulling his hand back, as if he'd touched a hot stove. The moment his fingers had touched them, a cold tremor had gone down his spine.

Like someone had stepped over his grave.

Japan shook his head. No. Those thoughts were ridiculous. He was a nation; he couldn't die.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to touch those keys again.

Suppressing another terrified shudder, he abandoned the piano, heading for the door.

This was ridiculous. It was his terrified mind playing tricks on him, nothing more. The feeling of dread was simply from the terror of the situation he was in. It had nothing to do with this room, or that piano.

Still, as he left the room, Japan thought he heard a quiet, raspy voice akin to his own, speaking to him from across time.

_"I'm sorry. It looks like this is the end for me."_


	4. Bruder

A lone albino staggered down the hall, only distinguishable from his white surroundings by the Prussian blue uniform he wore; the uniform that was slowly turning darker as crimson blossomed from his side and dripped to the ground.

Clutching his side, he leaned against the wall, hissing in pain as his legs gave way beneath him. He slide to the floor, eyes shut tight in pain.

_ Curse that Thing…_

Cracking open one scarlet eye, he glanced back the way he came. There was a steady trail of brilliant red leading to him, a small pool now forming at his side.

"At least… they'll be able… to find my body…"

Laying his head back against the wall, he shut his eyes again. Breathing was becoming more difficult, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

They should've never come here. The place was like a giant mousetrap; it sat in the shadows, waiting for unsuspecting, innocent prey to wander in.

And boy, had they fallen for it.

Several of them had died already. Russia, England, America, Japan… Once he died, half of them would be gone.

Five out of ten nations, killed by one mansion.

"_Bruder_? _Bruder_, where are you?"

Prussia snapped open in his eyes in recognition. "West…?"

He heard someone racing down the hallway, their boots pounding against the floor. Within moments, his vision was filled by brother's bulky figure.

"_Bruder_, vat happened?!"

"Vat… do you think? Ran into… that blasted Thing. Got injured a little… but I got… some awesome blows in, kesesese!~"

"_Bruder_, your side…"

Prussia glanced down, grimacing when he saw the stark contrast between his pale hand and the crimson tide that was overflowing it. Sighing, he turned his attention back to his brother.

"It's not… too bad, kesesese!~ Just a… little scratch…"

Prussia attempted to get himself back into an upright position, causing for white-hot pain to shoot through his body. He gasped aloud in pain, sliding back down, his energy spent.

"_Bruder_!"

Grimacing in pain, Prussia rested his head against the wall, opening his eyes once more. Germany was now kneeling down at his eye level, his own eyes filled with a terror Prussia hadn't seen since his brother was a child.

"Alright… Maybe it… isn't so little…"

Germany reached out, pressing his hands against the wound, trying desperately to stop the blood that was carrying away his brother's life.

"Come on, Prussia! Stay with me!"

Prussia knew it wasn't going to happen, though. Already, he could feel himself fading away, joining his nationality in exiting the world.

"Sorry… _mein kleiner bruder_… But I… don't think… I can…"

"Yes, you can! Dang it, vy won't this blood stop flowing?!"

Prussia smiled sadly, then let go of the wound, using both his arms to pull his surprised brother into a tight hug.

"Goodbye, Germany… Guess you're… not just… West anymore…"

"Prussia? Come on, Prussia, snap out of it!" Germany exclaimed as his brother slumped against him. "_Prussia_!"

But it was too late. His brother's life had already flowed out with his blood, leaving Germany holding Prussia's corpse and crying out pleas that would never be fulfilled.


	5. Glasses

"Yo, England! I'm coming in!"

Before England could tell his younger brother to please not slam his study's door open, America had done exactly that. England flinched at the sound of the door slamming into the wall, turning to glare at his brother.

"How many times have I told you _not_ to slam doors?" He hissed, emerald green eyes glinting.

America didn't respond. Instead, he stared at England, as if lost deep in thought. England doubted that; he knew his brother well enough to know that the only time America had ever bothered to think deeply at all was at "that place".

After several moments of complete silence from America, England sighed in frustration. "What, is there something on my face that is completely fascinating you for some reason? And if you respond with 'eyebrows', I will kill you."

"Glasses."

England frowned, confused. "What?"  
"You have glasses," America clarified, still staring at England.

England stiffened slightly at that statement. Self-consciously, he reached up and fiddled with the glasses that looked identical to his brother's. They were brand-new, purchased after a recent eye appointment. "S-So? You have glasses!"

"Yeah, but I need them," America stated, walking over so he was standing directly in front of England. "And you never have."

England turned away sharply, focusing his attention on his desk rather than on his brother. "Yeah, well, I wear them now. Your point?"

"You weren't able to restore your sight all the way, were you?"

England flinched, still staring down at the desk. "…No. No, I wasn't."

He'd tried for weeks after the incident at the mansion to completely restore the sight that had been robbed from him. In the end, he had been able to restore his sight… just not perfectly. The loss of his eyesight by the overuse of his magic had apparently condemned his eyesight forever; he was now near-sighted and couldn't make out anything far away.

In short, his vision was no longer 20/20. He needed glasses.

Personally, he hated them. They were a reminder of his stupidity and his mistakes. He'd already started contemplating getting contacts, and if the other nations were going to stare at him like America was, then perhaps he should.

He heard his brother pull a chair over, setting it down next to his own. Slowly, he turned and faced America. The younger nation was staring at him, that familiar haunted look in his eyes.

"Don't blame yourself for this," England said firmly, already knowing America was. He'd blamed himself when England went blind, too. "This is my fault. I went after that Thing; I overexerted myself. None of that was you."

"I could have stopped you."

England rolled his eyes. "You tried, remember? I'm the one who chose not to listen."

"But…"

"No but's. This is my fault," England said firmly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He still wasn't used to the feel of them. "You are not responsible for my life choices. The mistakes I make are mine to bear."

America was silent, staring down at the ground. England hoped that some of that got through his brother's thick skull.

"Now," England said, turning his body completely so he was facing America, "What was your reason for coming here in the first place?"

America looked back up. The haunted, guilty look was gone, but England had a feeling he was still blaming himself on the inside. And, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about that. "I just came to say that there's going to be a world meeting at my place this Saturday about… you know… 'the mansion'."

Inwardly cringing at mention of that horrific place, England curtly nodded. "Alright. Thanks. We're going to decide what to do about it, right?"

America nodded. "Yeah. Personally, I say we burn it to the ground."

"For once, I agree with you."

America smiled, getting back up. "Well, I gotta go. Japan and I are having a video game marathon. See you later, England."

The island nation nodded curtly. "See you."

America turned and headed back to the door. England looked back down at his desk, returning to filling out various forms and paperwork.

"Oh, and England?"

England turned around. America was peeking around the edge of the door. "Yeah?"

"Keep the glasses."

England rolled his eyes. "Of course I am, America. What, you want me walking into sign posts?"

"I meant don't switch to contacts or something."

England frowned, slightly puzzled. "Why?"

"Heroes wear glasses," America stated simply.

England looked down at his desk, frowning. "…I'm not a hero."

"Yes, you are," America said firmly. "You fought the Thing, you saved our lives various times… Trust me, England. You're a hero. Or, at least, you are to me."

Shocked, England turned and looked back over at the door. America had already headed out again, actually closing his door quickly for once. England stared at where his brother had been, still stunned, then slowly slipped off his glasses. He examined them, a small smile starting to form on his face. Sliding them back on, he turned back to his desk, resuming his work.

Perhaps the glasses weren't so bad…


	6. The Mochi

It sits in the wall, trapped in the location that is both its shelter and its prison. It tries to squirm out, but no matter how hard it tries, it remains lodged in the woodwork, not budging in the slightest.

There were some earlier who came by, kind enough to try pulling it out. First there was the man who found it, the one with the short, black hair and crisp military uniform as white as the Mochi's own body. He'd slid the bookcase aside, finding the poor thing trapped behind it. He'd had compassion on it, and tried his hardest to dislodge the poor thing from its trap. His efforts had been in vain, however, and it hadn't moved an inch. The man had left then, promising to come back with help.

Sure enough, he'd kept to his word, coming back with two others sometime later. One of them, the one that didn't attempt pulling him out, had unusual silver hair and eyes as red as the blood the Mochi knew had been spilled here. The other had been a blonde man with sharp blue eyes and strong muscles. He'd been the one to try pulling it out next, but his efforts had been in vain as well.

Sometime after the very first man had left, the other Thing that prowled these halls had come in. Both of the newcomers had been terrified at its appearance, but they had seemed to have met it before. The Mochi did not doubt it; unbeknownst to them, it'd been through time like the one with the rebellious curl. It had seen the horrors that had occurred in this place. It had seen the one with the curl weeping over the bodies of his lost friends. It had watched as he'd rewound time again and again, desperately trying to save them all. Each time, someone thwarted his best efforts; one or more of the visitors were sliced down by the Thing's claws, their life spilling out with their blood.

The Mochi did not know if this time would be different. That's why it was almost glad it was stuck; hidden in the wall, the Thing didn't attack it. It left it in peace, focusing instead on these "nations" that entered this vile snare.

Then again, was it really that safe? The wall it was imprisoned in was as much a trap as was this place. It was no different from these ten people who had entered, trapped and unable to escape. The only difference was that it had known from the start that it was stuck; the nations, with the exception of the one called "Italy", did not know the peril they had entered until it was too late.

So, like them, it waited. It waited for the key that would free it, release it from the trap it was stuck in. Then, once again, it would roam the halls, free at last.

Or, at least, freed to the bigger mousetrap that was this mansion.


	7. I'm Coming, Fratello

Grass strokes his boots, the overgrown forest reaching out to meet him as descends further into a nightmare. He clutches a memo pad firmly, carefully examining the detailed instructions within.

His best friend follows along beside him. Occasionally, he tries to start up conversation with the younger nation (or, more rather, half-nation) beside him, but for the most part stays abnormally quiet, as if understanding how much his friend wants the silence.

Every once in awhile, their progress is halted. Romano collapses with a cry, clutching his head as the memories pour in. Spain almost instantaneously drops down beside him, holding him firmly until Veneziano's memories stop flowing into Romano's head, no longer able to be contained within their own owner's head.

He sees gruesome things. He sees people lying in hallways, rooms, beds, staining whatever they touch with a brilliant crimson hue. Clocks break and breaths stop. Guns fire and swords slice the air. Screams echo through the corridors of his mind, mingling with a horrifying roar that does not resemble one Romano has ever heard.

His brother is in trouble. And something tells Romano it's far worse than the memories flooding his head can even tell him.

Once the tidal wave subsides and Romano can get back to his feet, he and Spain continue, trudging once more through the jungle that hides the spider's web that has ensnared Veneziano.

Romano does not know what lies in wait. He knows it is dangerous; he has seen flashes of a monster in the nightmarish visions he receives, a monster he is certain is the root of Veneziano's problems.

That does not matter to him. His _fratello_ is in danger; he will do whatever it takes to save him. This is not like other times when Veneziano is in danger; Romano is not sure why he knows this, but he does. This is a danger far worse than he, his brother, or anyone else they know has ever faced.

Finally, the grass clears. Romano intakes a quick breath when he sees the looming mansion in front of them. He has seen it before.

It's the mansion in his visions.

Ignoring Spain calling out after him, Romano races up to the mansion's gate. Swinging it open, he dashes inside, sprinting full force for the door. He pulls out his cell phone, quickly calling his brother on speed dial. He has been attempting to call him ever since the visions started, but none of the calls go through.

He can't explain it, but Romano knows that is the fault of the mansion, too.

He almost collapses in relief when his brother answers. "Um, Roma-"

"You _idiot_!" Romano screeches into the phone, struggling to shove his relief back down. "What took you so long to answer?!"

"What?! What? It's true? It's really you?! How? You _are_ Romano, aren't you?!"

Romano sighs in frustration. "Of _course_ it's me! Ack, wait-Spain! You can't take my phone! Give it back!"

His friend has caught up to him and is now trying to snatch his cell away, eyes shining. "Is that Veneziano? You got a hold of him?"

Romano responds by punching Spain in the face and pulling the phone back to his ear, quick enough to hear Veneziano's anguished comment of, "Spain, too?! It can't be true… Why?"

"I don't know what the crapola you're talking about," Romano says, even though he has an inkling as to what his brother _is_ talking about. "Now listen, Veneziano-…? Are you crying?"

"No, I-I'm just so happy," his brother says. Romano knows he is lying, but lets the subject drop. "Hey, Romano, can you fill in for me at work tomorrow?"

"What?" Romano asks in annoyance, frowning. Why is his brother talking about work? Judging from the visions in his mind, Romano knows that work would not be the first thing on his brother's mind. Not like it ever is in the first place…

"Tomorrow, and the day after, and forever and ever… Can you?"

Now this is unnerving Romano. Something is wrong; he knows that Veneziano means something behind those words, but he does not know what. "No."

"Romano-"

"It's _your_ job. Get back here and take care of it yourself! You really are an idiot, aren't you?!"

"Roma… I… hear… lo?"

Frowning, Romano presses the phone closer to his ear. "Veneziano? Veneziano?"

The call dies, cutting Romano off from his brother. The Italian curses under his breath, resisting the urge to chuck his phone at the mansion and instead slip it in his pocket.

"What happened?" Spain asks from beside him, having recovered from Romano's punch.

"It got cut off," Romano says with a growl, then sighs. "At least I got to call him… He really is a freaking pain…"

After cursing his brother under his breath, he looks up at the mansion looming over them. The mansion is as eerie as his brother on the phone. Wrongness hangs in the air, and it takes all Romano's courage to not wave the white flag and surrender.

Something is wrong. Really, really wrong. And Veneziano is trapped in the middle of it.

"Veneziano…," Romano whispers as Spain heads up to try the front door. "I'm coming."


	8. Failed Calls

"Roma? Romano? Are you alright? Romano!"

Romano opens his eyes. He is back at Spain's place, lying on the ground. No crimson stains. No anguished wailing.

No death.

"Roma, are you ok?"

Turning, Romano sees his normally cheerful friend is crouched beside him, hand on his shoulder. Spain's eyes are filled with worry and concern.

"I'm _fine_, you moron," Romano grumbles, attempting to shake Spain's hand off.

Spain smiles in relief, removing his hand. "Thank goodness! You passed out so suddenly… I was worried…"

"Yeah, well, I'm fine," Romano grunts, accepting the Spaniard's hand when he offers it.

Once Spain has helped him back up to his feet, Romano clutches his head, trying to put his thoughts in order.

"Roma, what happened?"

Even if Romano wanted to tell him, he couldn't. He does not know how to explain what had happened. All he knows is that he was somewhere else, somewhere far away. He was in an unfamiliar building, with brilliant, scarlet liquid staining everything in sight. Nations he knew lay on the floors, eyes glazed over in eternal sleep.

His brother was screaming.

"Roma…?"

Instead of answering, he pulls out his cell phone and dials a familiar number.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling my brother. Shut up."

Romano feels a pit of anxiety form inside his stomach when the call does not go through. He attempts again and again, each time failing.

Now extremely worried, he starts to dial a less-familiar number, one he only calls when he can't get a hold of his brother: Germany's.

"Romano…?"

"Shut up!"

The pit of anxiety blossoms into full-blown terror when that call does not go through either. He attempts to redial two more times, each time failing.

"Spain, call those two idiotic friends of yours."

"Why?"

"Just do it, stupid!"

Spain obliges, pulling out his cell and dialing one of them as Romano watches anxiously. Romano feels his worry rise as the Spaniard frowns, then redials.

"Please don't tell me your call isn't going through," Romano pleads.

Spain doesn't answer. Instead, he keys in a different number. "Let me try France. Prussia probably wrecked his phone or something."

When that call and the next do not go through and Spain turns to Romano, shaking his head, Romano starts to dial a number on his phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Austria. Maybe that pompous loser knows where the hell Veneziano is."

For a moment, Romano is afraid that this call won't go through either, and he nearly crumples to the ground in relief when he hears Austria pick up the phone.

_"Who is this?"_

"Do you have any idea where the hell my brother is?" Romano blurts out, ignoring Austria's question.

_"Romano? That you?"_

Romano swears violently. "Yes, you idiot, it's me! Now, where the _hell_ is my brother? Is he there?"

_"No, he's not,"_ Austria answers. Romano can hear confusion creeping into his fellow nation's voice. _"Vy? Is something wrong?"_

Romano curses again, gripping his hair. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. "Austria, do you have _any_ idea where he is?"

The man is silent for a few moments. Just as Romano is about to throw the phone down in frustration, Austria answers. _"I heard something about a haunted mansion… I believe he was going there with Japan, Germany, and Prussia…"_

Despite the blazing heat outside, Romano feels his blood turn to ice.

_Those visions… Where they in a mansion…?_

_"Romano?" _Austria says on the other line, reminding Romano he's still on the phone. _"Romano, vat's wrong?"_

"Roma…?" Spain asks cautiously from beside him. "Is everything alright?"

Taking deep breaths, Romano says, "I don't know. Good-bye, Austria," and hangs up, ignoring the protests from the other end.

"Romano, what's wrong?" Spain asks worriedly as Romano clutches his cell, shaking. "What's happened to Italy?"

Romano doesn't respond. After Spain asks him a few more times, Romano turns to the Spaniard, and he can tell from the look on Spain's face that he has failed at trying to mask his terror.

"I… I think Veneziano's in danger…"


	9. The Clock

He rounds the corner, limping from the wound in his leg. Blood seeps through the once-pristine blue uniform, turning the fabric dark. He glances around with nervous terror, wiping copper bangs out of his eyes.

When he first came here, he carried a white flag. He no longer carries it-he shredded that symbol of peace and turned its white purity to violent crimson with the blood of his friends.

Not seeing the monster he is certain would be following him, he staggers, then drops down to his knees and lets out the pain he's been bottling up. He pulls out a journal and clutches it to his chest, screaming in anguish as tears spill out from his eyes and splash down onto the floor.

He has failed again. Once again, he will have to turn back my hands and attempt to save his friends from the death trap they have been snared in.

I must commend him: for a coward who did nothing but wave the white flag, run away, and hide behind others the first time he came here, he has been very brave in the time loops that followed. I find it quite ironic, actually; the one who always ran away from war, never putting up a fight, is now willing to fight and even sacrifice his life to save the others who came here with him.

Finally composing himself, he gets back up. He glances down at the journal, then heads off, a determined glint in his eyes as he surveys the corridors he wanders, searching for something. This time, however, he is not looking for the monster that prowls the halls. Instead, he is searching for what he sees as the one escape route.

Me. The clock.

I am the only way for him to save his friends when he has failed once more to accomplish that. I am the one who allows him to go back and try to fix his mistakes, hopefully for the last time.

So far, he has been unsuccessful. He has rewound my hands thirty-two times thus far, and this will probably not be his last.

Yet, he continues to turn them. He will continue to do so until he achieves his one objective: get the other nine out safely and die in their stead.

So, once again, he will turn back my hands, the hands he has come to hate. He will go back in time and relive this nightmarish hell. And maybe, just maybe, he will achieve his mission.

Good luck, Italy Veneziano. For your sake, I hope this is our last meeting.


	10. Fingers

America is starting to unnerve England.

England is not exactly sure when America had started to worry him. He knows for certain that his worry spiked up, and has remained up, ever since America, Italy, and Germany came back from their accidental trip to the past. He has a feeling, however, that his subconscious has been worried for his former colony ever since they broke the clock in the basement, after finding the ladder that seemed to be an escape.

Actually, come to think of it, he is certain that his worry actually spiked up after Italy told them the "false memories" weren't so false, that the memories they got from the clocks were actually events of past time loops.

England is not sure _what_ America saw from that clock, but he has a feeling that whatever it was, it is something that is now upsetting America greatly.

And he is certain it has something to do with the finger questions.

England has lost track of how many times America has turned to him, asking the same question: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

It started out slow at first. Now, it seems like he is asked every five minutes. It is starting to irritate him, and he is tempted to say something like, "Sixteen, you git! Count them yourself, you bloody idiot!"

And yet, he doesn't. He doesn't know why, but he continues to answer with the exact, correct number, no matter how many times his former colony asks him.

Maybe it's the slight hint of anxiety in America's voice. Maybe it's the shadow of guilt in his eyes, like there's some sin he's committed against England that the island nation doesn't know about. Maybe it's the way his fingers shake as he holds them up, as if he's afraid that he'll get an answer he wasn't expecting, an answer he doesn't want.

Whatever the reason, he continues to answer, and his anxiety grows each time that question is asked.

That is another thing he does not understand. Why would such a simple question spike such anxiety deep inside him? It is almost as if his subconscious is trying to send him a message, but he just doesn't understand it yet.

And, unfortunately for the former empire, he will not understand until it is too late. He will not understand until his battle in the annex, when he unleashes everything he's got, causing clouds to obscure his emerald irises and send him plunging into darkness.

It is then, and only then, when he finally understands what the clock showed America, what he was trying to warn him of, what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

But, unfortunately, it is too late.


	11. Nightmare

England is in the middle of the first decent night of sleep he's gotten since entering the mansion when he is roughly kicked in the side.

It takes several more kicks, but eventually the island nation is pulled from dreamland and dragged back to reality.

"What the…?!" He mumbles in groggy irritation as he rolls over, ready to yell at the person who disrupted his sleep. His anger dies down when he sees the source.

America is thrashing about on his mattress, eyes shut tightly in fretful sleep. Judging from the words escaping his lips and the sobs mingled with them, whatever he's dreaming is as much of a hell as this mansion.

"England… England, no… England, _please_!..."

Worried, England sits up and grips his brother's shoulder. He shakes it roughly, trying to calm him down and bring him back to the nightmare that is their reality. "America. America, wake up. _America_!"

His former colony wakes up with a loud gasp, blue eyes shooting wide open with terror. Disoriented and panicked, his gaze darts around the room until it finally rests on England. "E-England…? What…?"

"You were thrashing in your sleep."

America flinches. Slowly pulling himself to an upright position, he looks at England. "Did I… Did I wake you?"

"Yes," England states bluntly. Seeing the guilt that shadows his brother's eyes, he quickly adds, "But only me. The others still seem to be asleep."

The shadow of guilt lessens slightly. "That's good… Sorry for waking you, though… I… I just…"

All of England's frustration at being woken up melts away. He nods in understanding, wrapping an arm around America's shoulders. "I know, America. I know."

The two sit side-by-side quietly, America now leaning against his older brother's chest. England massages the younger man's upper arm in soothing circles, waiting to go to sleep until he is certain America has calmed down once again.

They might not be exactly as close as they used to be, before the Revolutionary War, but that doesn't mean England doesn't still care about him.

Finally, England lets his arm drop. "I'm going back to sleep, alright? If… If you need anything, wake me up."

"Sure," America says as the former empire lies back down, settling comfortably into his pillow. "Oh! Wait, England!"

"Yes?"

Looking up at his brother, England sees him hold a hand in front of his face, three fingers raised. "Mind telling me how many fingers I'm holding up?"  
"_What_? You're keeping me up to ask me _that_?"

"Just answer it, ok?" America says firmly.

England opens his mouth to argue, but noticing a slight scared, pleading tone to his brother's voice, he gives in. "Three, you bloody git. Now, _go to sleep_."

As England rolls over and starts drifting back off to sleep, he is certain he hears America quietly whisper, "Thank you, England. Thank you for proving it was just a nightmare."


	12. Circle

They always circle back to me, no matter how hard he tries to keep them away.

Fate seems to have bound them to me; try as they might, they always end up in my room, very often to paint my white frame crimson. They never intend to; it just happens. We always meet again.

Especially the one in white.

Fate seems to have cruelly bound us together; I have lost count of how many times he has visited me. I know each time that he comes here now, he is filled with anxiety, like someone has walked over his grave.

Unbeknownst to him, he has. That very first time, his broken body lay against one of my legs, his blood staining both the floor and me.

His friend, the copper-haired time traveler that tries to keep them out, tried so hard to save him. He pleaded so hard for the dying one to remain in this world, to not cross over to the other side.

But, alas, his friend went to the other side anyway. It was too late; his soul had already boarded the train and headed on out.

The copper-haired time traveler visits me a lot, too. He is another regular traveler to enter the walls of my confines. Not because he wants to; he only ever enters if it will help keep his friends alive. He has gone through so much pain; even I don't want him to go through it all again.

Yet, he does. His friends continue to die on him, their lives slipping through his fingertips like grains of sand. Sometimes they die here, and I will watch on as he shakes their body in desperation, wailing to the heavens for them to come back.

They never do. Not until he finds the grandfather clock hidden within these walls and turns back its hands. The, they come back, through the power of time travel.

But it is not without its costs. The time traveler is so, so different from when he arrived. Sure, in front of his friends he acts the same, but that is only a mask. When we are alone, he drops it to the floor, lets his new self shine. There's a sharper, warier, more brooding look in his eyes, all cheerfulness sucked out. His cowardice is buried far below, a new bravery surfaced to the top. He's more serious, and walks with more caution.

And he is so, so alone.

Or, at least, he is in his mind, and it shows through. He cannot see what I see: the warmth of his friends that surround him, that will always be there for him.

He cannot see it, but I can. And I pray that he opens his eyes and sees the truth.

For, when he finally does, he may finally snatch up that chance. That small, slim chance of survival that has always dangled in front of him, always escaping his grasp.

Until then, however, we will go through fate's cycle. They will come here and die, and he will be unable to stop it.

And I will sit here in this room, and wait for them to circle back to me.  
They always do.


	13. Find Me

"Is it you? Is it really you?"

You're waking up, aren't you? You're finally realizing the truth. I can see the realization in your eyes, clarity lighting them with a hope I have not seen since you set foot in this accursed mansion.

Yes, it is me. Your best friend now is the best friend you lost centuries ago. My name is different and my memories are gone, but it is me. I am still with you. Apparently, fate has wrapped us in bonds of friendship so strong that we can't truly stay apart.

And it is a good thing, as you need me now. You need me now more than you have ever needed me before.

And by that, I don't mean that you need him. You need _me_. For I have a message that only I can give you. One that could potentially end the painful cycle you go through. One that could finally save you, him, and everyone else.

But in order to do so, we must be face-to-face. I must deliver my message to you in person.

I have already tried to contact you through your dreams. It does not work; you avoid sleep as much as possible, to keep from forgetting anything. And even when you do, you don't stay asleep for long, and your head is so clogged with your memories that nothing I say remains there.

So I do not know how I can give you my message. It will not work if _he_ remembers that he is me; he will not know of the message I hold. He does not have the memories that I do, the ones from the previous loops.

Yes, I am the one on the similar wavelength. I know you know that; I know that's why you finally realized that he is me. I am the one who receives the scenes that you tried to convince everyone were "false memories".

And from them, I have learned a message key to your survival. And I must deliver it to you.

So you must find a way to me. You must find a way for us to be reunited, for only then can I tell you it. You must find your way back to me.

I know you can do it, Italy. I know that you and I can once again cross our paths and meet once more.

You already did so once before, after all. "I" found you in that tomato box in the woods. You may no longer remember that memory, but that is what happened. You found me again, after losing me so long ago.

So hurry up, my friend. Find a way to reach me once more. Your survival depends on it.

I know you can do it. You have to.


	14. Sleep

'You can only sleep when you're dead.'

He had never understood that phrase. Loving his _siesta_ time, sleep was as valuable to him as breathing.

Now, though, his life and the lives of his friends were wrapped around him obeying that phrase.

His brown eyes remained wide open, his gaze darting around the room with watchful wariness.

He did not care that the place was locked tight and the Thing could, supposedly, never find them; he no longer laid trust in anyone or anything but himself. He had to get them out of here, and to do so, he must do everything in his power to make things go perfectly.

Including not sleeping.

If he fell asleep, they would be vulnerable to the Thing. He must be alert at all times, ready to combat the Thing and drive it back, away from his friends. He must never let his heavy eyelids fall.

He does not let the others know about his sleepless nights; too many questions would arise. Questions he could not answer, for the sake of their safety.

And then, undoubtedly, they'd try to force him to sleep.

If he slept, they would die. He did not want that to happen again. He _never_ wanted it to happen again.

How many times had it been now? How many times had they painted his world crimson with the tidal wave of their blood?

He rolls over onto his side, staring at the door. He half expects it to burst open, the Thing barging in and ripping them to shreds.

It doesn't, though. The fortress remains secure, with them inside and the Thing prowling around outside.

They might actually be safe for now.

Still, he cannot sleep. His body might be safe in this room, but his memories are not. Whenever he falls asleep, for he has stupidly done so before, his memories start to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He cannot afford that; he has to remember everything that happened before. He has to remember what mistakes to avoid and what things must be done. He has to succeed. He has to.

So he keeps his eyes open, using any tactic he can to keep himself alert. He barricades himself not just from the Thing, but from the sleep that yearns to unite with him. He pushes off its advances, welcoming the hell that is reality to the comfort of his dreams.

For if he gives in to the temptation, his memories will fade. His shields will go down. Mistakes will be made.

And they will die.


	15. Forgotten

My blood seeps out through the tears in my clothes, spilling out onto the cold ground and staining the wood dark.

I struggle to take a breath, my chest shakily rising and falling with each one. The time between them begins to increase, signaling that my own time is coming to a close.

With weary eyes, I look through my cracked lenses, clinging to the vain hope that in my final moments, someone will be there for me.

Of course, there is no one.

It does not surprise me; even before we all started to forget about those who were here, they never remembered me. I was the ghost in the background. The one no one remembered, let alone even attempted to.

Will they even realize I'm gone? I doubt it. They have never remembered me anyways; even my own brother can't remember me for over two seconds.

What was the point to my life if even he couldn't remember me?

I gasp out painfully, my vision starting to blacken around the edges. I feel like crying when I realize that I'm about to die in this hell all alone, and no one will even remember I ever existed.

That thought breaks the gates. Tears slip out from my violet eyes, mingling with the blood that mars my face. My body shakes slightly as the sobs escape my lips.

I don't want to die here. I don't want to die alone. I don't care if they never remember me. I want America. England. France. China. Japan. Italy. I just want _someone_. I don't want my only company to be the still air that surrounds me.

I am certain that it will be. Alone in life, alone in death. How fitting.

My pain and fatigue is starting to slip away. I know that I do not have much longer in this world.

I pray that the others make it out alive. Dying here is too cruel a death for anyone to suffer.

Still, I have a feeling that I'm not the first one of us nations to have succumbed to the Thing here. I can only hope that they were not alone, that someone was with them in their final hours.

And I can only hope that those who die here in the future are not alone. For I have a foreboding feeling that I will not be the last of us to die in this place. I don't know why I feel it; I just do.

My vision blurs, slowly beginning to darken and fade away. My strength is decaying, and it takes everything I have to force my diaphragm to move, to keep my lungs going. I can feel my heartbeat decreasing, the blood flowing from wounds stopping not out of healing, but out of dying.

My head slumps to the side, no longer able to stay upright. Slowly, I close my eyes, knowing that it will be the very last time.

And with that final action, I feel myself slip away from this world to the next, to be forgotten for the last time in my life.


	16. Visions

Everywhere he looks, he sees blood.

Blood on white walls. Blood on wood floors. Blood on a piano. Blood on carpets.

Blood on nations.

The crimson color coats their uniforms and skins, dull eyes staring blankly into the distance, never to see again. Arms hang limply at their sides, never to move of their own free will ever again. Legs splayed out, sometimes broken in awful ways.

And then there is the monster.

It is always there. Big, hulking, the color of England's cooking. Claws stained with the crimson that coats everything else.

It prowls the hallways, searching for the nations, determined to rip their flesh apart. It never stops. It never sleeps. It just keeps going, slicing down anyone in its path, dealing mortal blows to anyone unlucky enough to cross it.

And with each death, there is always wailing.

Always, always there is that anguished wailing. The wailing of someone who has not only lost a friend, but also has failed in whatever their objective was. A wail of complete and utter despair, one that makes Romano feel like he is about to break down and join.

Romano had figured out long ago that it was Veneziano.

He does not know why he is shown these scenes. He does not know why he sees these visions of corpses and blood and the monster. He does not understand any of it.

But he has a feeling that they are important. That he must listen to them. That he _must_ find Veneziano and rescue him, before these things come to pass.

Or, more rather, come to pass again.

He has a feeling that these are actually memories, for it is not just these blood-colored scenes he gets when he starts to black out from reality. He sees other things, things he knows are truly his brother's memories.

Hiding in a tomato box, only to be found by Germany. Standing beside a young boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, teaching him to paint. Spending time with their late grandfather. Training alongside Germany and Japan.

Memories that somehow have slipped from his brother's mind and slid into his own.

So he must pay attention. He must go to that place, the mansion that lies three hours north of the World Summit.

And that is why he is wandering through the overgrown forest, memo pad in hand. He trudges through there with his best friend, reinforcements behind them, all to save the ten inside this place.

They _will_ rescue them. They will not rest until they have found and gotten every last one of them out of there, alive. For Romano has a feeling that his brother will not rest until he has rescued each and every nation that is inside there with them.

So they must get them all out alive. They cannot fail. It is the only way to save Veneziano. To end his pain.

And to end these wretched visions.


	17. Reunited In Death

Pain racks my body as I slide down to the floor, my legs losing their ability to hold my weight. I press a hand to my ragged side, a side that's almost nothing but shreds of skin.

I can hear Italy crying, and even though my vision is darkening, I can see the tears that are falling from his eyes.

Please, don't cry, Italy. Everything will be alright. I will be fine. Just run along now, Italy. Please. Stay here any longer, and that monster is sure to come again.

Prussia, please, take him away from here. Take care of him. He's fast, but he's not strong. If that monster catches him, he has no chance. Please, my Bad Friend, take care of him.

Your voices are all fading now. I can feel death reaching for me, welcoming me with open arms.

I have lived so long. We all have; we're nations, our lifespan indefinite. Can we die? Apparently, yes, judging from how I know that my time in this world is about to come to an end.

And I am ok with that. We made a new breach at least; the others can escape. I can die knowing my death wasn't a waste.

If only China and Russia wouldn't be joining me so soon as well… I saw their wounds. If they survived, I'd consider it a medical miracle.

"France. France, wake up now."

That voice… That beautiful voice… It couldn't be…

I slowly open my eyes, the lack of pain at even that simple action signaling to me that I truly have moved on. And if that wasn't enough proof, then the figure before me confirms that fact with all certainty.

Even in death, she is as lovely as she was in life. She kneels before me, patiently waiting for the nation she cared so much about, the nation she fought so hard to protect, to finally rejoin her in the next world.

How strange it is, seeing her like this once more. She is no longer illuminated by flames, no longer a pile of ash scattered to the river. She is completely restored, skin no longer blackened and burned.

"Jeanne…"

Jeanne, my Jeanne, smiles softly. Her hand reaches out for my own, waiting patiently for me to depart with her.

And I am ready. I reach out and grasp her hand, allowing her to pull my spirit from my body. Standing beside her once more, I lace my fingers with hers. Despite my readiness, I still turn around, taking one last look at the corpse I'm leaving behind.

The crimson tide from my side has stopped, my heart no longer pumping the blood to keep it going. Hair clings to my blood-stained face and my eyes are closed, never to open again.

Jeanne squeezes my hand and I tear my gaze away, focusing instead on her. Smiling softly, I finally do something I have waited centuries to do. I lean forward, pressing my ghostly lips against her own.

Finally, my beloved Jeanne, we are together again.

In death, we are united once more.


	18. Sight

"I never thought I would envy people who can't 'See' so badly."

What was I thinking? Why did I say that? Why was I so stupid? Why did I put that bait out for fate to grab? Why did I jinx myself to this curse of eternal blackness?

How I wish I could see anything at all now. America's obnoxious grin. Canada clutching that polar bear of his in shyness. Italy's curl bouncing up and down as he runs. Heck, I'd even put up with having to look at France if it meant I could escape this shroud of darkness!

But it's too late. My cards have been dealt, and fate has been sealed. My irises are forever clouded; my vision the same whether I close my eyes or open them. All I can do now is attempt to hear the things I miss, try to pick up the clues my surroundings leave me.

And hear things I do.

The trembling in America's voice when he talks to me, as if he's about to burst out into apologies that aren't his to make. Canada's quiet voice asking me if I need anything. France stepping up to his role of "big brother", assuring others and for what is possibly the very first time in his life refraining from making perverted comments.

The silence that fills the air from the lack of Italy's voice.

Is he dead? I don't know. Germany said that his heart stopped beating, that air no longer flows through his lungs.

Both of those facts are true. Still, weirder things have happened in this place. Maybe, just maybe, he's not dead. Maybe we're wrong. Maybe he'll surprise us all and come back from wherever he is now.

I hope he does. No one should have to die in this hell. This place shouldn't be a grave, least of all for someone who's been as brave as Italy has.

If he does, however, he will probably insist to go back in time, to save me from myself. I won't let him. I can't. My decision to fight the Thing was my own stupid decision; the rails were laid down, and I followed them. My darkness is my cross to bear now, no one else's. He should not go through the pain he's been through all over again solely to fix the curse I brought down on myself.

America, America. Why didn't I listen to you? Why did I try to take over your role of the hero? I'm so sorry, America. I'm so, so sorry. I wish I hadn't let my pride get in the way. I wish I'd stay out of the annex. I wish I'd shoved my arrogance aside, my stupid thinking that I was strong enough to handle anything.

I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. And I paid the price.

'Pride comes before a fall.' I fell, all right. I came crashing down from the lofty pedestal I'd set myself up on. I hit rock bottom and shattered.

Now all I can do is hope that my mistakes will not ruin the lives of everyone else here. That I haven't destroyed our chances for survival.

We can still make it. We still have a chance. What we'll do next, I don't know. But we can still make it out of this hellhole.

I may be blind, but I can still see hope.


	19. No Escape

You think you can escape me.

It's almost cute, the way you actually believe you stand a chance. You keep running through these halls, ushering your friends from room to room, trying in vain to keep their lives from my clutches.

But in the end, they always return to me. They always return to my claws, to have their life cut short in front of your eyes.

You could have ended all of this at the very beginning. You could have simply continued doing what you do best. You could have run away and destroyed this place like you declared. You could have saved who knows how many future lives from this place.

Instead, you chose to go back and try to save your friends. Even though all your efforts to save them would be futile and you yourself would die now, you still went back, thinking that you had a chance to save them.

When will you realize you stand no chance? Their fates have been sealed; they will die here. I've killed them every other time, and I will continue to do so. All you've done is prolong your own agony; prolong the pain of watching those you care about gruesomely slaughtered in front of you, unable to stop the hands of fate.

That's why I want to show you mercy: tear your life from you as well, let you finally join them in death.

I know I succeeded at least once before. But if I do kill you, then that friend of yours with the unusual incantations sacrifices himself to rewind time in your stead.

It seems stupidity runs in your friends as well. Or, at least, a sacrificial streak.

But don't worry; I won't make you sacrifice yourselves in vain. I'll continue hunting you and your friends. I won't stop until all ten of you succumb to the silence of death.

Well, twelve now, since that brother of yours and his friend arrived. If only they'd listened to you; their lives wouldn't have to be ended so abruptly. And don't think rewinding time will save them; now that they've entered the mansion, their fate has been sealed. In all time loops from here on out, they will come here. Their fates have been interwoven with this place; they cannot escape. They are trapped in this spiderweb.

Don't worry; they'll join you in death, too. I will make sure not a single one of you escapes this mansion alive.

So, run, Italy Veneziano. I won't tire of this chase. And someday, in one of these time loops, I will finally cut all of you down, end your futile efforts.

I will have you, Italy Veneziano. The new Ryuugu. My trophy. Your fate has been sealed.

There is no escape.


	20. My Fault

Why? Why did this have to happen? Why didn't you listen to me?

I tried so hard to warn you. I tried so hard to keep you from repeating history. Why did I have to fail?  
"How many fingers am I holding up?" I kept asking you that, kept praying that it hadn't yet come to pass. Each time, you answered correctly, lifted my spirits, gave me the hope that perhaps I could change fate. If we could make it this far... If things could be going this well... I thought maybe, just maybe, I could save you from the darkness your future held.

But I failed. And I failed miserably.

If only I hadn't tried to be the hero in that accursed annex. If only I hadn't pulled my gun on the Thing. If only I hadn't lost my glasses, my Texas.

If none of that had happened, you wouldn't have gone down there. You wouldn't have tried to be a hero. You wouldn't have overexerted yourself, wouldn't have used too much magic.

You would still be able to see.

You were right earlier; I should have talked to you. I should have told you everything. I shouldn't have kept it bottled up inside, tried to carry the burden by myself and be the only hero. Didn't I learn anything from Italy?

But I did it anyways. I stupidly refrained from sharing my anxieties with you, kept myself from simply asking you not to push yourself too hard.

And because of that, those emerald irises of yours have turned foggy. You stare straight ahead, unable to see what's in front of you, all because of my mistake.

It wasn't worth it! You shouldn't have gone after that Thing! Why should you have sacrificed your sight just to make my own a shade clearer?

It's all my fault. I drove you to go down there. If you'd just stuck to being the gentleman, if you hadn't tried to be the hero, everything would still be alright. You would be able to answer my question. You would be able to walk without me guiding you.

You would be able to see the tears running down my face.

I don't care what you say, England; it's my fault. No matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise, I will _always_ know this was my fault. Nothing and no one can change that.

And so, I will have to live with my regrets. I will have to lie awake at night, the guilt overwhelming me and running rampant in my brain.

That is my cross to bear.


	21. Run

**(Author's Note: Two quick things. One, this was written for the theme "Run" for a 100 Themes Challenge I'm doing. Two, it's not just the journal Italy goes back in time with: he does need this certain clock. He tells Japan that at one point (forget when...).****)**

His legs are burning, but he can not stop running. If he stops for even one second, he will be caught. And if he is caught, then it is "game over" for all of them. They will not escape, and all those times he went back in time will have been for naught.

So he forces his legs to keep moving. He pushes them as hard as he can, panting to get the much-needed oxygen back into his lungs. It's not enough, but it's at the very least something.

Rounding a corner, he glances back. The Thing is still hot on his tail. Honestly, he's certain the only reason why it hasn't caught him yet is because he always _did_ run his fastest when fleeing, as Germany always said.

Germany. A sob threatens to escape from Italy's lips, but he forces it not to come. Breathing is hard enough right now; crying will only complicate things.

Still, he can't wipe Germany's mangled body from his mind's eye as he keeps going, other similar visions of fellow nations soon following that. He wills himself to keep from wailing and sobbing, but he does allow the tears to spill down his cheeks.

He failed them. _Again_. Once again, he is all alone. Once again, they were all taken from him.

How many times is he going to repeat this cycle? How many more times will he run and run, desperate to save them, but _still_ fail in the end?

Part of him whispers to just give up. His friends die each time anyways; what's the point of going through all this pain over and over again if nothing changes?

Ashamed, Italy shoves that whisper away. How _can_ he stop? How can he just give up now? His friends gave their lives to protect him; the least he can do is continue this nightmare so he can save them this time around.

It doesn't matter if he has to run until his lungs burst; he _will_ make sure they escape.

Sliding into a room, he shuts the door and firmly locks it. He can hear the monster's angry roar from the outside, but he ignores it. He knows that the item he is searching for is in here; he had spotted it earlier, back when he did not need it.

Sure, enough, his amber eyes fall on it, and he can feel hope rise in his chest.

The clock.

Dashing forward with his last ounce of energy, he practically throws himself at it. Ignoring the rattling door, he fumbles with the clock hands, turning them back.

The clock face lights up, as does his journal. The room is filled with a blinding, golden light that makes Italy's eyes shut instinctively, and he feels as if someone just blasted a fan at his face.

The light dissipates, and the Italian nation slowly opens his eyes.

"Hey, Italy? You ok?"

Blinking, the brunette looks at the speaker, a best friend he has missed greatly.

_Germany._

Willing himself not to cry, Italy smiles cheerfully and nods. "Ve, yeah!~ Why do you ask?"

"You just… randomly stopped, that's all."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I was just taking in the scenery, ve~"

Germany looks unconvinced, but he shrugs. "Alright. Vatever you say."

The blonde continues forward again, and Italy quickly accesses the situation. He can see Japan and Prussia immediately up ahead, so it appears that he is going with the rest of the Axis and Prussia to the mansion this time. They are still in the forest leading to the mansion, so they haven't arrived yet. He doesn't bother accessing himself; he already knows from past experience that whenever he goes back, his wounds are healed.

Stamina, however, is another thing.

He follows after his friends, breathing deeply to restore the oxygen his lungs have been craving. If this is like the last times, which it will be, he will need every single one of those molecules he takes in.

So he replenishes his lungs as discreetly as he can while he walks there, for he knows that it will be time to run once again.

And maybe this time, he will finally be allowed to stop running.


	22. Loneliness

**(Author's Note: Written for theme #18 (Loneliness) in a 100 Theemes Challenge I'm doing.)**

Italy was alone. Again.

Once again, they had all left him and crossed to the other side. He'd tried so hard to save them. He'd scoured the pages of his journal, avoided previous mistakes, and used every last ounce of energy in his body. Yet, no matter what he did, the preset path continued to be followed. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't derail fate.

If he was keeping an accurate record, this was attempt number forty-seven at keeping his friends here on the Earth. Unfortunately, he'd failed once again in the one task he wished to accomplish.

Why couldn't he keep them alive? Why did they have to leave him? He wanted his friends to remain together, but in _life_! Not in death!

He wanted to die. Oh, how he wanted to die and join them. He wanted this agony to end, to finally be at peace.

But he couldn't die. Not yet. He had to rewind time again. He had to go through this hell once more, hopefully for the last time. He had to get them all out safely.

Then, and only then, could he hand himself over to the Thing and be taken from this Earth.

Yes, even though he was fighting as hard as he could to keep his friends together, he was not planning on remaining with them. That was part of his plan to save them. He had to keep them alive long enough to get the key, get them out, and then the Monster would claim his life in place of theirs. That was how it was supposed to go.

And yet… He'd done nothing but fail over and over again. He kept ending up alone, with only a monster, a hellhole of a house, and too many corpses to keep his company.

He'd even had to learn to tie his shoelaces. A dead body wasn't much help in tying laces, and it wasn't as if he could ask the Monster, "Excuse me, could you stop in your quest to devour me whole to quickly tie my boots for me?"

Germany would be so proud of him now. Growing up, learning simple tasks he should have learned as a child, fighting instead of waving the white flag of surrender… Yes, Germany would be proud. If his best friend were still alive, that is.

But Germany wasn't alive. None of them were. They'd all been sliced down again. One by one, they'd fallen victim all over again.

This time, however, things would be different. Italy _would_ keep them alive. He'd get them all out. He'd keep them together, make sure they weren't lonely.

And himself? He'd separate himself from them; make himself alone even in a room full of living souls, so he could keep them safe. And once they were safe… Well, he'd go and join Grandpa Rome on the other side.

At least maybe death wouldn't be as lonely as life.


	23. Japan

**(Author's Note: First time writing Japan's English dub accent. I'm so sorry if I failed really bad... Anyways, for Theme in my 100 Themes I'm doing.)**

Black hair clung to his face, his eyes unfocused and dull. His once pristine uniform is stained scarlet in several places, torn up to reveal equally ripped flesh in other places.

Italy knelt down in front of his friend, sobbing. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Why did this have to happen? Why did he have to die?

Italy wanted his friend back. He wanted Japan to be alive again. He didn't want Japan to be lying against the piano, body broken and mangled.

At least he got to be with him in his friend's final hours. Japan didn't deserve death, but at least he hadn't died alone.

"Why?" Italy asked, his voice raspy. "Why did this happen, ve? Those rumors… they weren't supposed to be true…"

He reached out, gently closing his friend's eyelids. Now it looked more like Japan was sleeping, if you could ignore the horrific injuries the island nation had suffered.

If only he could turn back time. If only he could undo what had happened. If only he could save his friend.

If only… If only…

Italy wiped bloodied hair away from Japan's forehead, memories of their times together coming back to him.

"Remember when we first met, ve?" Italy asked, a soft laugh entering his voice. "You thought I looked 'overly suspicious'. And then we signed that pact at your kotatsu table. The Tripartite Pact."

"And remember when you came to sightsee at my place, and you started acting more like me? Boy, did Germany get mad, ve…"

"A-And remember that time when I hugged you, and you completely freaked out, demanding I 'take responsibility'? I didn't know you'd never had a hug before, ve…"

Italy's breath hitched in his throat, tears returning to his eyes. "Why did this have to happen, Japan? Why, ve?"

The Italian nation lunged forward, hugging the corpse tightly. He didn't care that his uniform was going to get stained with red that wasn't tomato sauce. He didn't care that hugging wouldn't being Japan back. He just wanted to hug his friend one last time.

Letting go, Italy slowly stood up, biting on his lip to try to keep the tears from falling.

"I-I'm sorry, ve… This… This is all my fault…"

Italy turned and headed out of the room, giving his friend one last sad glance. "I-I'll come back for you, ve… If… If I can…"

With that said, Italy left the room, leaving behind the empty shell that had once been one of his best friends.

"Japan!"

The Asian nation turned around. "Yes, Ita-Oof!"

The Italian nation had captured Japan in a bone-crushing hug, burying his face in the island nation's shoulder.

"I-Itary, _what_ are you doing?"

"Sorry, ve!~" Italy exclaimed, letting go and grinning. "I just really, really wanted to hug you. I'm just so glad you're ok!"

Japan blinked in shock for a few seconds, then shrugged. They'd been trapped in this mansion for who knows how long now, with the constant threat of death hanging over them. Italy had never done well with these kinds of things; Japan could let this particular invasion of his privacy slide. "Aright. But prease don't do that in the future. You know I'm not fond of that."

"Ve, I know~ I just… I just really needed that, ve!"

Japan smiled, then hesitantly reached out and patted Italy's shoulder. "It'r be ok, Itary. We'r make it out of here."

"Ve, yeah!~"

As Japan turned to continue heading down the hallway, he was very certain he heard Italy quietly say, "I won't… But I hope you do, ve…"


	24. England

**(Author's Note: For my 100 Themes I'm doing. Theme . Renamed it here as England. I'm sorry if this is too much like "Nightmares". Also sorry if America and England are a little OOC...)**

_"England! England, stay with me…!"_

_The island nation was currently lying on the floor, blood drenching the side of his uniform and pooling onto the ground. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, breaths that were becoming slower by the second._

_"America… Go… We both know… I'm bloody not… making it out of here…"_

_"Shut up! You're… You're going to be ok!" America snapped, yanking off his jacket and pressing it to the enormous gash, trying in vain to stop the bleeding._

_"America… The Thing will… be back… any moment… You have… to go…"_

_"No! I'm not leaving you! We're making it out together! Dang it, why won't this blood _stop_?"_

_England said nothing. Instead, his eyes slowly fluttered shut, one last sigh escaping his lips as his chest slowly ceased to rise._

_"England? England, no! Come on, England, wake up!" America pleaded. "England! _England_!"_

America bolted upright with a loud gasp, body shaking. Glancing around the room, his eyes fell on the sleeping form of the blonde beside him. England's chest rose and fell steadily, looking more at peace than ever in this accursed mansion.

Still shaking, America pulled his legs close to himself, resting his chin on his knees. He hated these dreams. Why wouldn't they go away? They were always the same: the horrifying "false memories" he'd received from the broken clocks, the ones that might not be so false at all.

The ones that showed his brother dying.

America shut his eyes tightly, trying to stop the quiet sobs that were now escaping from him.

"_They're just nightmares… England is ok. Nothing is going to happen to him. We're all going to make it out alright. We promised. We signed that pact. We're all going to make it out alive."_

"America? Lad, are you alright?"

Startled, America whipped his head around to look beside him. England had apparently woken up and was now sitting up, eyes wide with concern. "America?"

The younger nation nodded shakily, smiling weakly. "Y-Yeah… Just a nightmare…"

Sighing quietly, in more of a caring manner than annoyance, England scooted closer to America, wrapping an arm around his former colony and pulling him close. America gratefully leaned against him, burying his face into the island nation's shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

America shook his head. He did _not_ want to admit to England that his freaking out was over the thought of his former caretaker being torn apart by the Thing. Thankfully, England didn't push the matter, instead starting to rub America's shoulder.

"Alright. If you change your mind, I'm here, ok? You're not alone."

America nodded. "O-Ok…"

They stayed like that for a few moments, England humming some melody very quietly, like he used to do when America was a child and came to him in the middle of the night, terrified out of his wits.

Finally, America pulled away from England, lying back down on the ground. "Thanks, bro. 'Night, England."

"Good night, America."

America watched as England lay back down, quickly returning back to the realm of dreams. The younger nation watched him quietly, the gears of his brain turning.

Yes. They were just nightmares. They would not come to pass in reality.

America would make sure of it.


	25. America

**(Author's Note: Theme # in my 100 Themes I'm doing. Takes place before America's stand in the annex.)**

He has seen a lot of horror movies over his centuries of life, but none of them compare to the dark terror that is this mansion.

Nothing scares him more than this. Nothing. At least with horror movies, he doesn't have the threat of death looming over him every second.

It's not even his own death he fears; he fears for the lives of his friends and, most importantly, the two nations he considers to be his "brothers".

He worries about England the most. He has seen visions of the past; he has watched his older brother overexert himself, use more magic than his body can handle. He has watched England die several times; Italy even confirmed that not only did England die the most, but sometimes he was the only one to die.

He fears for Canada, too. The brother that is practically his twin may say the Thing can't see him, but America doesn't care. The risk can't be taken; he cannot risk losing the brother he used to forget was even there.

He feels useless. He's supposed to be the hero, yet he can't save anyone he holds dear. What kind of hero is he if he can't accomplish that task?

Italy has been far more of a hero than him; the auburn-haired nation has bravely gone back in time over and over, putting up with the agony of watching them die in front of him for who knows how many times. He was willing to give up his own life to make sure the rest of them would get out safely.

That is why he's decided to take action. He can't just sit by and watch as those he cares about die all over again. He especially can't sit by and watch England push himself past his limits yet again, throw away his life for no reason.

So he is going to take a stand. They need to get back the Thing in the annex; isn't it the hero's job to rid the world of evil?

He is going to be the one to save them this time. Not Italy, not England. This time, the task will fall into his hands.

So he loads his pistol, making sure the bullets are ready for firing. He will snatch at this chance; he has to prove himself. It's up to him to be a hero and finally save someone. No longer will he need to be saved.

Once the bullets are loaded and ready, he waits. He waits for the cue that they will take a trip to the annex. And when they do, he will finally prove to England that he can stand up for himself. For once, it will be him saving his brother, not the other way around.

He is America. And he will finally step up to his role of the hero.


	26. One Man

**(Authror's Note: For Theme in my 100 Themes. I really strayed from the Theme, though...****)**

He sometimes wondered why he'd even stepped up to this task.

He wondered why he hadn't taken the easy way out: flee from the mansion and simply have it destroyed, leaving the corpses of his friends behind. It's not like he'd ever tried to be the hero before; he'd always fled in fear, never rising to a challenge.

Perhaps that was why he'd begged to go back in time, to set things right. If he hadn't relied on everyone to protect him, they would all still be here. He owed them. It was just retribution for him to be tasked with protecting all of his fellow trapped nations, no matter how impossible the task.

And impossible it was; he had scores of records in his journal that proved just how many times he'd failed, how many times he'd watched them die again.

No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't succeed. He was only one man; how could one man keep nine others safe from the fate that had been set in place for each one? A fate that ended with their lifeless bodies strewn across the floor?

And yet, he kept going. He couldn't give up. Yes, he was one man, but he was the also the only man who knew about their past with this mansion. He was the only one that even had a chance at the task.

He sometimes contemplated telling them. Maybe, now that they'd seen the monster, they would believe his tale. Maybe now they would listen to him.

But he didn't. Even if they believed him, how would that help? Worse, would they get angry? Would they turn against him?

He didn't want that. He had to do whatever it took to keep them alive. Even if he had to hold the painful secrets close to his heart, even if he had to distance himself from those he cared about most. No matter what this task called for him to do, he had to rise up and do it.

Even if it meant his own death, he had to do it.

And he was ok with it. He'd resigned himself to his fate. This was just punishment for allowing his friends to die the first time around. This was the cost of his sins.

Yes, the task was impossible. Yes, he was only one man.

But he was going to have to do.


End file.
